


The Forgotten and the Dead

by DreamsAtDusk



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamsAtDusk/pseuds/DreamsAtDusk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU set after the winter fete of Shadow and Bone. Alina and the Darkling journey north in pursuit of Morozova's herd. But what was meant to be an uneventful detour has its own surprises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after the winter fete in Shadow and Bone. Baghra did not appear to send Alina fleeing into the night and the hunt for Morozova’s stag continued along its original trajectory.

The cuffs of the _kefta_ reminded her even when her face could not. 

A Tidemaker’s pale blue thread looped and whorled its way around them in a pattern that, upon the closer examination she had had the time to devote in the past days, lacked quite the level of intricacy the gold of her own cuffs did. Pulling them back from the reins for a moment, Alina Starkov chafed her gloved fingers against one another and focused on remembering she was not, for the moment, ‘Alina Starkov’. She was simply another average Grisha, riding in the Darkling’s entourage.

Genya had not accompanied them. Her presence on this journey would have raised questions, though not as many as an attempt to extricate her from her duties at the Grand Palace to start with. But she had played a part nevertheless and her talents saw to it that this particular Grisha did not merely smack of the Sun Summoner in a borrowed _kefta_. They would fade: the blonde wash to her hair, the shade of her skin, the scar-evoking discolourations that trailed down over one cheekbone from her hairline. Through some sort of agency she could not quite place, the Tailor had even contrived to make her look somewhat older: a Grisha in the prime of her service to the Second Army. Alina had privately thought it all on the excessive side under the circumstances, particularly given she going to be bundled against the cold. Yet Genya was so gleeful at her part in the intrigue that Alina had not the heart to put up more than token protest.

 _Some_ protest was mandatory, of course. That was half the joy of it for Genya, she was sure of it.

*

_Having brushed Alina’s hair smooth as a first step, Genya switched to bringing it all up into a tail that perched just below the crown of her head. From there, it was simple work - for Genya at least - to twine it into a concoction that managed to be both utilitarian and becoming. It also called more than a little attention to the ersatz scarring on her face, even in the cramped view offered by her hand mirror. Alina quirked a brow and pointed. Genya flapped a hand dismissively on its way to diving in with another hairpin._

“ _Sofya Volkova is a woman with pride in herself. That scar is a badge of honour, I’ll have you know.” Genya was not overly gentle with Alina’s hair, but compared to the ministrations of Ana Kuya years ago, it was a soothing sort of manhandling to undergo._

“ _Who’s Sofya Volkova?”_

“You _are. You can’t very well go around introducing yourself as Alina Starkov while you’re in disguise, can you?” Genya beamed. “So I’ve come up with a cover story for you.” With that, she launched into elaborating upon the life she had concocted. Alina gazed at herself in the mirror as her friend spoke, regarding the look of her cheekbones and the arch of her neck, set off as they were by the styling of her hair. The sight grew on her. It was as looking a measure into the future, where the line between Alina the unwanted orphan, the Junior Cartographer of dubious talent and Alina the Sun Summoner had widened into a chasm. She found she did not mind the thought of that, as she shifted the mirror to take in a three-quarters view._

“ _Wait, wait!” she interjected with a laugh, when Genya was done spinning out the tale of how Sofya came by her scars. “I don’t want a reputation that means I need to leap to first action in defense of the Darkling - remember I’m not_ actually _a Tidemaker?” Though the idea of sculpting deadly flying icicles out of the snow was certainly an impressive notion._

“ _But. . .I like the rest of it. Even if my ears are going to freeze like this.” She grinned and Genya mirrored it._

“ _Put your hood up.”_

*

The sound of hoofbeats coming from the opposite direction interrupted her thoughts and she sat straighter in the saddle, holding tight to the guise of Sofya Volkova. Sofya Volkova the Tidemaker, chosen to accompany the Darkling north to the outpost at Chernast, with no idea of what his business was there, for it was none of hers. Alina may have had no experience at being an actress, but it was nevertheless a more comfortable part to play than the truth.

Between them and Chernast lay Tsibeya’s snow-covered vastness. And somewhere along the way, were the Saints with them, Morozova’s herd.

It was not the Vy, this road they were on, not so broad or well-kept. Tsibeya and the border beyond did not have as much to offer as the west, even if the Fold sat between Os Alta and the True Sea. Yet as the main trade road bound north, it was decent enough and kept clear of snow for the Armies and merchants to pass that way as needs must. Some distance behind where Alina rode, the wheels of the Darkling’s coach rumbled over stone and earth. It wouldn’t be viable for much of the route, but at the moment, reminders of its presence caused Alina to think of its cushioned seats with some wistfulness. As ‘preoccupied’ as she had been during her prior and only venture forth in that particular conveyance, she had to admit it had been a less bruising way to travel than the days of hard riding that had come after.

They journeyed on. Not so brutal in pace as that prior trek and far better provisioned, it was nevertheless an interval wreathed in monotony. In better shape now as she was, it left Alina in good repair for dwelling on that latter point and, more so, upon the things that flooded in to fill it.

The Darkling had no more to do with her than most of the other Grisha - Ivan and a couple of others some limited exceptions - since the journey began. What had passed between them the night of the fete might never have been. In between mulling anxiously over what would happen once they located the stag, she caught herself fretting it was not simply a ploy. If it were, Alina could not settle on how she felt about that.

And then, there was Mal. The likelihood she would not see him in Tsibeya when he was the reason the stag had been found to begin with was vanishingly small. She could no more decide how she felt about that than she could unravel the feelings that had trailed her from the Queen’s darkened sitting room to the present moment. She ran her thumb along the scar on her palm, the sensation muffled by her glove. The questions became two sides of the same coin, one or the other facing her whenever she lifted her thoughts from the amplifier.

*

“Starkov.”

Even with no one else about save Grisha and _oprichniki_ , Alina nearly jumped out of her boots at hearing Ivan’s voice. She had done a better job of submerging herself in the guise of Sofya Volkova than she thought and hearing her true name was like a rifleshot. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him.

The group had split off onto a side road early that morning and had since stopped upon encountering a small contingent of the Darkling’s guards awaiting them. With them they had brought a _troika,_ the silvery runners of the sleigh far more suited for cutting through the snow she could see stretching out in unsullied expanses not far in the distance. Its lacquered exterior and three horses were all a glossy black, leaving no doubt as to why it was here. All through the clearing, _oprichniki_ and her fellow Grisha buzzed about, orders being distributed, along with additional supplies. Alina had been left to her own devices to this point, but she had picked up that the group was splitting up, though she was not entirely clear why.

Ivan jerked his head toward the _troika_. “Lucky you, you get to ride in comfort while the rest of us keep slogging through the snow.” The Heartrender smirked and it a little too closely resembled the one he had worn the night that evening by the lake, just after the Darkling had kissed her. That put her back up and Alina coolly arched an eyebrow.

“Is that an order?”

“An offer, I’m sure.” The smirk did not falter. “Up to you. You’ll be cold enough soon, either way. Never been to Tsibeya before, have you?”

He strode off toward a duo of Corporalki gathered near the horses, gesturing as he neared them and paying no further mind to Alina. After a moment, Alina decided there was no actual principle in snubbing an offer because of the messenger and earning nothing more than an increasingly sore behind from it to boot. She did briefly wonder what the other Grisha would think, but then dismissed the concern. She was the Sun Summoner: _that_ is what they could think.

She approached the sleigh, opening the door and clambering up. It was warmer within, a big contributor to that a covered brazier holding court to one side. Crouching awkwardly for a moment in the floorboards, Alina glanced back and forth. A fur lap blanket was folded neatly on the far side of one seat. Her brow crinkled as she considered which place she was intended to sit in, but crunching in the snow outside motivated her to thump into the forward seat with haste. Moments later, the Darkling was settling in across from her.

He gave her a half-smile, as though he hadn’t spent the past days all but ignoring her, and reached out one hand. It traced feather-light down the fading ‘scar’ that arced out over her cheekbone.

“I see that Genya made the most of her part in this.”

Alina clamped down on the urge to check out of the windows and see if anyone had been looking towards the sleigh at that moment. The Darkling sat back, reaching up to knock on the roof. Soon after, they lurched into motion and Alina prodded at the silence.

“Ah, won’t this raise questions, in Chernast? I mean, me riding in here.” She closed her teeth on a ‘with you’ postscript.

He gestured to the window and the sight of a large chunk of their group riding off on a divergent path. “They are bound for Chernast. We are not. The outpost is closely watched by Fjerdan scouts at the best of times and I am sure they’re even more on alert now. There was an incident.”

Her stomach gave an unpleasant roil as she remembered Mal, striding across the Hall of the Golden Dome, a fresh, jagged scar along his jaw, shadows gathered beneath his eyes. “. . .what sort of incident?”

“A small party of soldiers and trackers crossed the border in pursuit of the herd. Unfortunately, they were seen at some point. Whether they know why Ravkans infiltrated Fjerda or not, I do not know. But I would not have you too near to Chernast without purpose. The latest reports are that the herd roams Tsibeya.

“We will await further news at the estate of Countess Timurova. It’s an isolated place and the Countess very much a recluse, so it will be simpler to keep our presence quiet. Sofya Volkova is one of the Grisha that travels with me, as far as they will know.”

She looked up at him, startled. He had apparently been paying more attention to her than she thought. It occurred to her that, compared to the journey to Os Alta, he was also being far more forthcoming about what was going on. She did not stop the small smile that crept onto her lips then.

*

Alina had not lent much thought to how the Darkling filled his time while riding in coach or _troika._ But if pressed, she might have assumed it was something along the lines of gazing regally into the distance for long periods of time, punctuated by intervals of some lackey producing a light snack. Given the brazier, a glass of hot tea might even be in the offing. Presented now with the reality of the thing, she could safely say that there was far less regal gazing and far more paperwork.

A sheaf of documents perched on the cushion beside him much of the journey, the contents variously reviewed, sorted, and frowned at in turns. She took to assuaging her own boredom by trying to read the micro-expressions that crossed his face over different papers and being impressed by just how measured an increment he could raise his eyebrow when particularly annoyed.

She was startled out of this latest routine when the Darkling abruptly extended a paper in her direction. “What do you think of this?”

There being no one else to whom this could have possibly been addressed, Alina tentatively reached out to take it. She forced herself to focus on the words, even if his gaze upon her made her want to blurt out something before she had begun processing the words.

“Rostov is on the border with the Shu Han.” That was the only thing she was absolutely certain of in her response. She may have been only a Junior Cartographer, but she was more than a rank apprentice. The Darkling said nothing, nor nodded in agreement. He simply continued watching her.

“So. . .it doesn’t make sense that the First Army would do this. This. . .this is the sort of maneuver that leads to settlements being attacked.” She saw a dish of beets in her mind’s eye and smelled smoke - then they were gone, leaving her shivering faintly. She took a closer look, rereading several lines. It really clicked then. “They’re doing it on purpose. As bait.” Her fingers on the document felt numb. It didn’t say it so clearly as that, but if you rolled it around in your thoughts and looked at it from an oblique angle, there you were.

The Darkling finally responded then. “That is the underlying proposal, yes. While suggesting that the Grisha at the outpost remain to assist ‘in event of a situation’. A trick to see how closely the Shu keep watch there these days.” He took the paper back from her.

Alina snapped out of the horror of the idea and studied him more closely. “Are you. . .what are you going to do?”

“I don’t command the First Army, Alina.”

She stared at him, but held her tongue. She had not remained completely oblivious of political maneuvering while in Os Alta. Sometimes the best thing you could do was see what someone would say if you gave them the opportunity.

“But this fails to acknowledge the strategic importance of the area. A poor place for such a reckless maneuver. They realize it, somewhat; thus wishing that the Grisha remain to head off an attack. If I refuse to leave them stationed there in this event, the likelihood is high they will discard the entire plan.”

And that was that. He went back to reading, leaving Alina with two questions: why had he asked her opinion in the first place? And, would his response would have been different had the area not been of such ‘strategic importance’ and only home to a village of unfortunate _otkazat’sya?_

*

The Darkling never seemed to sleep, unless he did so while she herself had dozed off. For her part, Alina tried very hard not to; the thought of drooling in her sleep or her head bouncing off the window as he watched was mortifying enough without the reality. But the monotony was an implacable foe and the increasing cold caused her to hunch in on herself more and more. She plunged into uneasy dreams. In them, she ran across endless white fields in pursuit of something she could not see - all around, shadowy figures lurched about the edges, now resembling the golden-haired Fjerdan who had tried to kill her, then looking like no one so much as Mal when she turned her head.

When Alina woke, she was warmer than she had been earlier. The brazier was churning out heat with increased vigor and the lap blanket that had been folded nearby was spread over her. Save for her, the _troika_ was empty, and motionless. Shifting to peer out of the window, the sight of an _oprichnik’s_ head was the nearest thing visible, standing close enough that she leaned the opposite direction in reaction. He did not notice, gazing outward into the nearby forest as he was. There were no signs of a camp being pitched nearby. Swallowing, Alina scooted over to look out of the other window.

Grisha and the Darkling’s guards were on evidence on this side as well, either sitting their horses or standing with the same air of alertness as those on the other side. Up the hill a ways, she could see several people gathered, though dusk robbed the scene of any detail. The only certainty was that the Darkling was with them, his _kefta_ an unmistakable ink stain against the snow even in the gathering gloom. Alina inched her way back closer to the brazier and, clasping her fingers tightly beneath the blanket, sat there with increasing unease until the door latch clicked.

“We’ll be at the estate soon.” Having kicked snow from his boots, the Darkling reseated himself and Alina’s eyes scanned his features.

“Is something wrong?”

He shook his head, but she would have lain a bet that it was pensiveness she saw edging his expression, every so faintly. “Some dead animals, up the hill. It is unclear how they died.”

His talkativeness from the other day declined to put in another appearance and, unsettled at what could be so peculiar about an animal’s death that someone would bring it to the Darkling’s attention and that he would furthermore bestir himself to investigate, Alina said nothing further. Fingers kneading the underside of the blanket, she looked down at the gently shifting fur and tried instead to think of what Morozova’s stag might look like. But what consumed her mind’s eye was the Darkling’s expression as he stared out of the window. Darker and more distant than she had ever seen, something about it rendering him a man she knew even less than the truth of things.


	2. Chapter 2

As the forest fell away and the horses pulled them along a gradual arc suggesting of a road beneath the snow, Alina’s breath caught. Above, the moon was huge and bright, its face beaming down upon a great frozen lake. It dwarfed Trivka’s pond that she had skated upon as a child and glinted ferociously under the cold, clear sky.

Growing on the horizon as they rounded the lake rose a house, cut like a silhouette against the moonlight. It was wrought of wood, tall and spindly from the angle they came upon it, the rest of the structure swept to the back like a cloak blown long in the wind. The _troika_ stopped a distance from the front walk, just at the edge of where the snow sat all but undisturbed. The Darkling climbed out first, before putting a hand out for her as she clambered onto the step herself. Resolutely not looking in Ivan’s direction, Alina took it and as their palms touched, she felt the warm wash of his power, the calming sensation threading through her from her arm. She was unsure if it was her imagination that his grip tightened for a bare second before he let go. Alina occupied herself with brushing her _kefta_ unnecessarily to rights, before gazing up at the manor house.

Elaborate carvings ran below the eaves and around the windows, fretted and painted. At the front, like the prow of a ship, a tower with a gable roof jutted forward and upon the little porch it sheltered, she thought she glimpsed a figure gazing down at them, before deciding it was a trick of the shadows.

It smacked of Keramzin, only even more so. Duke Keramsov’s estate had many an empty, dusty room, in spite of the orphans and war widows littering its halls. But there was no denying it was occupied. Here, one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise. Few lights gleamed in the windows. Where they did, their light was hushed, as if within, flames huddled close about their wicks. In the glow of outside lamplight, the paint looked sun-worn and hazy, the structure it enrobed an exhausted ghost of a thing. A part of her felt apprehensive about venturing over the threshold, as if the entire building might collapse upon their heads.

A single figure hovered near the double doors before them, a man garbed in servant’s fashion. He bowed nervously at their approach and Alina thought of the picture they must make: the Darkling melting out of the evening in his black _kefta_ , the _oprichniki_ with their unsmiling faces, the smattering of Grisha. An _oprichnik_ moved to engage the servant on the matter of stabling, while the Grisha themselves proceeded for the manor’s entrance.

Peering over her shoulder, Alina saw David shuffling along behind Ivan, the sole member of the party garbed in Materialki purple. She felt his presence like a brand whenever he was near. The finest Durast in the Darkling’s service, it was he who would craft the amplifier. _Her_ amplifier. She wondered if other Grisha had their amplifiers wrought so immediately as was the plan for the stag, but suspected they did not. The Darkling intended to waste no time on this matter it seemed. And with an abrupt flash of unease, she wondered if that in turn meant they would be bound straight for the Fold after this, if he expected so powerful a. . .a miracle.

They stepped into a foyer suiting the exterior of the house: rather narrow, but deep. A staircase arced down from landings above on either side, meeting about halfway down and continuing, unified, a generous span back from the door. An erratic spray of people dotted the marble, but it was the one clambering slowing down from the bottom steps that arrested Alina’s attention.

For a moment, she thought this was who she had seen gazing down at them from above, a pale, wispy figure as it was. But that covered porch must have been three stories above and this woman looked as though any hurrying was years, if not decades, beyond her. It could be no one but the Countess Timurova: an old woman who looked fragile enough to snap in a middling wind. A cane was gripped uncertainly in one hand, skin taut and rumpled in turns over tendon and bone. She was tall and thin as a rail, garbed in an ivory fluttering fabric. Her hair was paler yet, bundled high on her head and frizzing about with great enthusiasm. It looked like nothing so much as some great cobwebby kokoshnik.

As she came off of the last step, a man hastened over, his livery suggesting some sort of man at arms.

“Welcome! Welcome to my home!” the old woman declared, waving a blue-veined hand through the air and nearly clipping the guard in the face.

Alina was hardpressed to keep her jaw from dangling, the scene was so surreal. The Darkling seemed to take it all in stride. He gave a small bow. “Countess Timurova, our apologies for disturbing you so late in the evening.”

Whatever else he might have said was interrupted by the Countess flapping her hand again and skimming the tip of her cane on the floor. Alina had the impression she would have waved that too, had she the strength to lift it from the floor. “When you are as old as I, you sleep when the urge takes you. And it is a fickle thing indeed, my boy.”

Alina almost snorted at that - as spindly and faded as the Countess was, the Darkling was older yet, however much he did not look it. Did the old woman even realize who it was she was addressing?

“Please avail yourselves of our abode as you need. We need little enough of the space in this rambling old place, my flock and I.” The visible part of said flock consisted of a kitchen girl, parts surly and spooked in expression - maybe _she_ realized who had come to visit - the man that hovered ineffectively at the Countess’s elbow, a couple of more fellows in servant’s garb, and several others who looked like guards.

Was that it? It really was a small number of people for such a house, even as small as it was compared to the Grand Palace. Keramzin had echoed with the sounds of many, though perhaps it would have been as empty if not for the Duke’s charity. Standing there, Alina found herself chafing her fingers against one another and stopped, feeling a rise of embarrassment. But it _was_ cold, even with the door now shut fast behind them. To look at those before them, one would think only the kitchen girl felt the same - she was huddled into her drab coat, hands out of sight where they were stuffed as deeply into the pockets as they would go.

Logistical details beyond those already imparted beneath her notice - or perhaps the conversation simply no longer interested her - the Countess shuffled her way along toward a corridor to the right, a pacific look on her face. . .and her path aimed right at Ivan. Already astonished by the abrupt departure, from the Darkling’s presence no less, Alina watched the dotty old woman’s progress with a sort of wonder. Ivan was caught by the same sense of disbelief, leaving to the last minute a dart to the side before they had the pleasure of seeing whether the old woman would have rolled right over him.

The Countess’s staff dispersed themselves as though dancing to unspoken orders, one murmuring something about rooms and mounting the staircase. Alina fell in with the rest of the Grisha in the Darkling’s wake. His expression was unreadable as he ascended the steps, though he did glance - briefly, but notably - to Ivan, who in turn underwent a minor facial contortion as the Darkling turned away. Sudden insight blossomed.

“Were _you_ the one who arranged our accommodations?” Alina murmured to the Heartrender.

Circumstances dictated he couldn’t even snap out a “Shut up, Starkov,” forcing him to settle for a glower so covert it was a wasted effort. Feeling herself avenged for his smirks days prior, Alina sailed on her way. And she did not think of the stag.

* 

The Timurova estate had all the welcomeness of a tomb in the morning; it took but short residence to feel like a sufficient authority on that point. She had yet to see the Countess before noon, nevermind what the old woman had said of sleeping only when the urge took her. Urges apparently had a more consistent schedule than Alina had supposed.

For her own part, she might have liked to lie abed longer than she had, if for no other reason than that it would be a warmer prospect than wandering the halls. Alina had not been employing her powers for so long a time that extended periods without calling light did not let a chill start leeching into her bones still. There were times in the Little Palace when it was simply too warm to wear one’s winter _kefta_ inside. But here, clad in one appointed with extra care for the hard journey in Tsibeya, she could scarcely dream of taking it off. How the old Countess did not freeze away into nothing in her fluttery gowns was beyond her.

But no Grisha in the Darkling’s entourage would be whiling away her day in bed, and so Alina extracted herself, bundled up, and roamed the halls. Again and again. The manor reminded her of the Little Palace, after a fashion. Older, more intimate, not the garish overwrought grandeur of the king’s winter home. Yet even more than the Little Palace, it felt like this place and its denizens had never left the past, as if a lost princess from a story might suddenly round a corner any moment or a _vodyanoy_ lumber forth from the lake. But thus far the reality had only been Sveta, the waifish kitchen girl, tramping around with empty water buckets for filling, or _oprichniki_ on patrol.

She did not spend all of her days wandering about, for that would have been as peculiar as hiding away in her room. Socializing was not in her nature however and even if it were, one did not chatter aimlessly with the _oprichniki._

Or Ivan. Or David. Or the Darkling.

The other Etherealki had been unknown to her prior to the start of their journey, for they were already active in the Darkling’s service, not from among those Grisha at the Little Palace on extended studies. They knew her true identity, but that was not something to manufacture instant closeness. She spoke with them now and then, and did not pick up a sense that they wished her elsewhere, but she likewise felt no urge to linger.

There was an old library on the premises and David was to be found within its confines pretty much whenever anyone bothered to check. Alina would have thought there was little enough to hold the attention of someone with the resources of the Little Palace at their fingertips. Upon making occasion to remark this to David himself - for Genya’s sake, she had steeled herself and attempted interaction - the Fabrikator had diverted into a extended litany on the merits of the Timurova collection. Apparently there were some very rare tomes housed in this unlikeliest of venues, for all the cobwebs she spied during the course of the (very one-sided) conversation.

On this particular day however, Alina Starkov had a more concrete goal in mind. She marched herself down a hall on the east side of the manor, closed doors running ahead of her like the tide. It was an apt simile, for so much of this place was a sea of mystery. But the door she sought now was well flagged, the charcoal-clad figure of an _oprichnik_ stationed before it. Her step hitched only for a breath and she told herself it was before the man had set his gaze upon her, that he did not see.

He did not stop interrupt her as she lifted a fist to knock. She wondered if he would have permitted so cavalier an approach at home, before her focus was diverted by thinking of the Little Palace as ‘home’. Was that what it was to her? Alina jolted back to the moment when she heard the Darkling’s voice, easily recognizable despite the thick old wood between them, and pushed into the room.

It was as time-worn as the rest of the manor, as over-large and under-filled. Perhaps it had once been a study in earnest - there was a desk at its center like an island, its top scarred and blurred with age - and not simply playing at one for the present. The Darkling was seated behind the desk, focal point of a scene that was antithetical to that presented in the war room. A series of windows, tall and broad, spanned the space along the far wall. Tired drapes obscured a good expanse, but they were peeled back in the middle to allow light to infiltrate and the sun obligingly beamed in. Dust motes danced through it and cast it all as a midmorning daydream, a deep black _kefta_ a curiously intense point to it.

The Darkling stood as she approached, executing that small bow he so often made toward her. It struck her in a way it had not before, the spectre of the fete continuing to tint every little interaction with over-analysis. She felt flush with a pleasant sort of feeling and the shiver of uncertainty all at once, for that fundamental question still lingered: what happened next? 

“Alina. Please.” A long-fingered hand indicated the smattering of chairs before the desk and she perched in one, stacking her hands in the lap of Sofya Volkova’s _kefta._ The Darkling reseated himself and for a moment they looked at one another across tidy piles of reports.

“How are you finding this little respite? A welcome break from classes?” 

Half expecting to have been promptly chivvied to the point of her visit, Alina had to backpedal mentally, the perfect recipe to reply before she had really thought out of her words.

“It’s. . .different.” Lonely. “I’ve never had so much free time to myself before.” That she could remember. _Be grateful:_ the eternal whisper of Keramzin - they had been put at chores promptly after arrival, had the orphans. Before. . .before was a lost thing. 

He cocked his head and studied her. His hand came up, then settled on a stack of papers, fingers slightly tented. Alina imagined he had been about to reach across the desk, but the distance would have made it awkward, had he meant to touch her. Her heart thumped faster. 

“Free of any excitement though I know.” A half smile. “Not that that is always a circumstance to regret.” She felt sure he had almost said something else, as she had felt sure he nearly reached out the moment before.

“There was something you needed?”

“Yes. Ah. I wanted to ask your advice.”

The Darkling leaned back in his chair and let his hand drop to his leg, but said nothing, waiting.

“I’ve been thinking about what happens when we find the stag. How that. . . works. That is, I can’t perform the Cut. I know it’s a rare ability, so I assume it’s not needed to claim an amplifier. But, I’m not clear what _is_ needed. I’ve been reading the theory books,” she hastened to add, flushing lightly. “But they’re really vague on the practical side of things on this point.”

“The Cut is indeed unnecessary,” the Darkling said. “One needn’t even use Grisha abilities at all. A knife will do well enough. Or a rifle.”

He must have read the mild panic that dawned on her face at that. If success hinged upon her ability to take down a mythical creature with a rifle, particularly from a distance or, Saints save them, a knife, then. . . . Mal was accounted an extremely good shot in their regiment. Alina, well, suffice to say that she had finally found more aptitude as a soldier of the Second Army than she ever had as one of the First.

“Don’t concern yourself over it.” The Darkling’s expression was serene and she wished she could have such confidence that she was not about to further doom all of Ravka. “The Grisha who will wield an amplifier must make the killing blow, but that doesn’t mean no aid can be rendered. You won’t be sent out alone on the tundra to deal with the stag, I assure you.”

Alina tried to imagine Ivan or Zoya having needed others to bring their quarry down for them and failed completely. Shame clenched at her belly, but she tried to force it away. This was not about her, but Ravka. She must remember that. What had to be done, would be. “I know how important this is. I just don’t want to make a mistake.”

The Darkling smiled and it was a full one this time, his quartz eyes glinting at her through the daydream sunlight. 

“I won’t let that happen, Alina.”

*

As the door clicked gently into a latched position - the notion of thumping it shut with the Darkling on the other side didn’t seem right - Alina paused a single step down the corridor. From somewhere, she thought she caught the distant strains of music echoing. It was so faint as to not be a sustained sound, fading in and out as she listened, the instrument not even discernible. The _oprichnik_ by the door showed all of the reaction of a statue when she glanced at him.

It was difficult to imagine a denizen of this particular household picking out a piece of music in the midst of the day - or ever - and the novelty of it drew her down corridors, the sound growing stronger, continuous to her ears now. A piano.

Locating the likeliest of rooms, Alina found the door ajar but pulled to. Hesitating for a moment, she reached out and pushed with a light touch. With a creak of the hinge, the tune stopped and an empty room stood revealed. Empty of any person at least.

The furnishings and design suggested it was a ballroom, the silvered surfaces of mirrors lining the walls. On the far side, near fretted doors that opened onto snow-shrouded gardens, was a piano. A sheet had been pulled over it at one point, but currently lay half on the floor like a drift that had crept its way inside. The floor itself looked to be in some of the best condition she had seen here, but that was likely due to sheer lack of use: dust furred it as thickly as a dog’s coat. And through this, Alina could see a distinct lack of any footprints traversing the room, for all that it seemed she could almost still hear the piano’s strings lingering at the end of a note. She had heard the song. Where had the pianist gone, and how?

Feeling sudden pinpricks up her spine, she turned and nearly leapt from her skin at finding the Countess Timurova herself standing there gazing at her like a dazed owl.

Alina fumbled desperately for something to say, something other than ‘sorry for wandering around your house poking into things’, even if the Countess _had_ gone on about her home being open to them. Finally, she stammered out, “I’m sorry, I thought I heard the piano.”

“How delightful! You play? Why, it would be marvelous if you gave a performance after dinner.”

“Uhh, no, I don’t. I meant, I thought I heard someone else playing.”

“Oh, I know. It’s simply absurd. You have only to look at her to see it.” 

To that, Alina was left speechless at first. The old woman’s gaze was unfocused, but her tone was as forthright as her words were nonsensical, leaving the Grisha taken aback. And there was something strange about her mouth, something edged lurking at the corners.

“My lady, ah, I’m not—”

“What’s that, dear?” Clear as a blue sky now, the Countess’s eyes, but vaguely fixed. Alina wanted nothing so much as to be somewhere else. She sketched a hurried bow, apologized for disturbing the other woman, and fled. As she plunged past other shut doors, she could not help but think of what she had spied at that last moment she peered into the ballroom - dust on the floor, thick and undisturbed, yes, but by the piano, she could have sworn she saw a swath where the half-fallen sheet had swiped a clear space. . .one that hadn’t yet been covered back up.

* 

“The Countess, play at the piano? She can hardly hold her tea glass with two hands. She’s too old,” Sveta scoffed and heaved a board of chopped turnips into a pot on the stove.

Under the circumstances, a seat by the kitchen grate was the warmest spot Alina had yet found in the manor. Given no one had any use for her at the present, she was perfectly content to perch here and soak up the heat.

Perhaps she even fit here more than she thought, in spite of her _kefta_. It was not so different from Keramzin in this particular room, save for it being much emptier of people and activity. And the fact Sveta had nearly leapt the length of the room, her wide eyes shocked and a little fearful when, on an earlier day, Alina had made to pick up a knife to help. At the duke’s estate, the notion of being forbidden to help with chores would have been the most absurd thing of all. But except for that, the girl had accepted her presence - perhaps with resignation - and recent days had loosened her tongue. Perhaps too much but Alina had a feeling Sveta normally went long stretches of time unable to vent.

“Does anyone else play?” she finally ventured, sipping the tea that was her excuse for being here.

“I don't think so.” Sveta frowned thoughtfully and shook her head. “Not much call for that sort of thing out here. And _I’ve_ never heard it played.”

Loose tongue or not, she apparently felt it impolitic to outright suggest Alina was hearing things. “But there’s strange enough sounds around these parts regardless,” she continued. “Strange enough happenings. Best not to. . .away, you!”

Alina had barely processed the tap-tap sound of something against the window frame before Sveta lurched forward to whip a dish cloth at the glass. A crow exploded from the sill outside in a burst of black feathers and disgusted cawing. Sveta turned back to Alina and to the Grisha’s startled expression, said firmly, “Bad luck, that. Birds tapping at windows.”

Ana Kuya had turned her nose up at peasant superstition - unless it was about Grisha, a small voice whispered at the back of her mind - and so Alina merely blinked.

“Why do you stay?” she asked suddenly, thinking all at once of cold halls, neverending work for a near-invisible mistress who was at the very least senile and quite possible insane, and the encroachment of ‘strange happenings’ and grip of superstition.

Sveta gave her a peculiar look. “Where else would I go?”

*

The Darkling found her that evening as she made her way toward her room. His expression was exultant and Alina’s heartbeat began to skip and trip within her chest. She knew. 

“We leave tomorrow.”


	3. Chapter 3

Once the initial giddiness faded, Alina began to wish the news of their imminent departure had waited until the morning. It kept her staring fixedly at the darkened ceiling above, the trepidations that had accompanied her down snowy roads swarming back to clot at the front of her thoughts. Outside, what had been faint skittering sounds on the roof on prior nights was worse than ever, more like a dog scrabbling around with ragged claws than tree branches bobbing in the moonlight.

She drifted off at some point, mouth shaped in a vague frown of irritation. 

* * *

Alina registered the sounds before she registered her own reawakened state, the low murmur of voices blurred by the door, the timber that of men with an occasional interlude at a higher pitch. The entrance to her room was very near to that of the Darkling. The first night in the manor, she had lain awake wondering if she would hear a knock upon the door and unsure of how to respond if she did. But no knock had come, she had fallen asleep, and so had passed each night since. The proximity meant she did hear occasional comings and goings and the faint edges of speech. But at the moment, it sounded more like a symposium was being conducted practically on her threshold.

Uneasy, she sat up, casting back the covers and stuffing her feet into her boots. From the foot of the bed she fetched up a dressing gown Sveta had found for her and shrugged into it. 

“You’re traveling with all of those _men_!” the girl had exclaimed - clearly she was not acquainted with army life - and nothing would do but that she locate a suitable garment, as if Alina was to be strutting before the others in her night attire. (Of course, now that had unexpectedly proven to be just the case.) The archaic style suggested it was a castoff of the Countess, but at this point in their stay, Alina had sufficient background to wager the old woman would not have noticed the appropriation had she slid down the balustrade while wearing it. 

She eased her door open a narrow span to find nearly every single member of their party clustered nearby. The Darkling was there, speaking to Ivan, other Grisha, and numerous _oprichniki._ Even those not involved in the core discussion were muttering quietly to one another and their expressions put a turn to her stomach. Closing the door behind her, Alina slid up to one of the Squallers, standing on the periphery, and softly asked her what was going on.

The other woman had an eye on the Darkling and Ivan, but answered back just as quietly: Pavel, one of the Inferni, had been found dead by an _oprichnik_ on patrol. Killed, as those animals on the hill had been killed. Swallowing, Alina asked in what way that was. The response made her stomach flop upside down. 

They were drained of blood. 

The others were rippling their way into two groups, Ivan heading a mixture of Grisha and _oprichniki_ and the remainder clustered around the Darkling. The Squaller joined the former group, leaving Alina to wait in silence as preparations resolved around her. David had not been in his room and Leonid, an _oprichnik_ who had been on watch, was missing from his station. Ivan’s party was to search the outbuildings and exterior of the manor house; the others would take the inside. The residents of the estate, of which neither hide nor hair had been spotted since Pavel’s body was discovered, were to be accounted for. Alina privately thought that hide and hair were not necessarily to be expected at this late hour. But there was a grimness to the Darkling’s expression reminiscent of that he had worn in the _troika_ on the night of their arrival, and she said nothing. 

Ivan lead his collection of soldiers toward the nearest staircase, the thump of their boots the only sound for a moment. Alina stood quietly through all of this, not wanting to draw attention to herself. But now, the Darkling turned to regard her. He was going to tell her to go back to her room, she was sure of it. To lock her door and leave the real Grisha to handle this. The Little Palace had ill-prepared her for the reality that most of the Second Army faced. She steeled herself for protest, when: 

“You’ll come with me.” 

Startled, but trying hard to hide it, Alina moved to fall in with the others. 

“Alina.” She stopped, looking at him. “Get your _kefta._ ” Turning so quickly for her room, there was _some_ chance he did not see the blush dawning over her cheeks, Alina could have groaned at herself. Embarrassing enough that she had been standing in front of everyone - in front of the _Darkling_ \- in her nightclothes. To have forgotten the importance of corecloth when entering potential danger on top of that was icing on an unpalatable cake. Thrusting her arms into Sofya Volkova’s _kefta,_ she was still hastily buttoning buttons upon reentry to the corridor. 

* * *

They made their way down the hall and to the other wing, the light cast forth from a lantern in the hands of one _oprichnik_ jolting along the wooden panels of the walls as they went. As such things fall out in such moments, the creaks of the old house seemed magnified around them as they went, but not in the ways played out in the ghost stories told in Keramzin’s dormitories. The sighs and groans of the structure seemed to move only with the soldiers, and all else more distant from them was as still and quiet as a corpse they were disturbing. 

Reaching a door that looked much like any downwind of it to Alina, but apparently held more significance to the others, their procession ground to a halt. Yegor stepped close, his ear all but touching the wood for a long moment. Shaking his head, he sent a look to the Darkling, who nodded. The _oprichnik_ pressed briefly on the door handle, then backed up and forcefully planted the sole of his boot beside it. 

The sound of splintering wood chased a wave of half-astonishment, half-horror through Alina, as she peered past various shoulders to the interior of the room revealed. The suite was fronted by a sitting room, so there was no view of an appalled - or befuddled - Countess before them. For she had no doubt these were the Countess’s rooms; Alina wondered just how much of the discussion she had missed before being woken by the voices of the others. The Darkling had clearly prioritized “accounting” over any adherence to propriety. 

Two guards swept quietly into the room, the Darkling and others following after. Including Alina. Even if she did not expect to be herded by the Heartrender close behind her if she didn’t, she still had no inclination to stand in the too silent hallway alone. 

There was a peculiar scent to the rooms. Not the stereotype one might expect of an older person, nothing powdery or medicinal or dying. But it was distinct, though difficult to put her finger on why. Alina shifted to put her back against the wall as the others searched rather than stand in the open door. Gazing at lace draped settees and patina-ed wood, she clutched her _kefta_ and robe more tightly about her. 

Yegor soon presented himself before the Darkling, gesturing deeper into the suite. “There is no one here, _Soverenyi_. The bed does not appear to have been slept in tonight.” He hesitated. “Overall, things look--” 

“Staged.” Everyone turned to stare at Alina. 

“I don’t know. It looks too much like I’d expect it look. But it doesn’t…feel…right.” She flushed under their skeptical regard, but the Darkling gave her an appraising look. 

“She’s right. Something is amiss here. We proceed to the lower floor and sweep each level going up. Weapons held ready.” 

For most of the Grisha, that was a moot point. But Stasya unpocketed her flint and the _oprichniki_ set off down the hall with rifles out. Matvey, holding the lantern, pulled a pistol from his belt. Alina slid up alongside the Darkling. Deploying her own powers would shatter the ruse of Sofya Volkova immediately, were there any not their own to see. 

Quietly, she asked, “What should I—” 

“If it comes to it, do you what you must to defend yourself.” 

Down the back stair they went, a search commencing with the first of the doors they were met with. No one and nothing of interest behind it, desultory puffs of dust besmirching charcoal grey uniforms. Rather than setting anyone at ease, Alina suspected each empty room wound many of the others tighter, as they did her. Thumbs hooked together, the fingers of one hand quietly strangled those of the other. 

Then: a quiet trill on piano keys. The opening notes of the tune she had heard the other day. Alina stopped so abruptly that the Heartrender close on her heels swore as he nearly plowed into her. The Darkling turned at the minor commotion, but she had seen his chin rise slightly before that, seen the others swivel their heads towards the sound. They had heard it too. 

“There’s a piano in there,” she whispered, jabbing a finger in the direction of the ballroom. She could just make out its double doors through the gloom further down. The Darkling studied it, then nodded in its direction. “Carefully. It could be a trap.” 

Silently, they converged upon it, his guards thrusting the doors open and emerging into the room bristling with firearms. The Grishas’ hands were poised to work each of their particular brands of the Small Science. But there was nothing for them to face, but a piano and a sea of dust. Thick and undisturbed as ever. Dust motes danced in the beams of lantern light. The Heartrender, who had looked most dubious of Alina’s remarks upon Countess Timurova’s suite, shook his head. “Look at this place. No one has been in here in an age.” 

“I thought that too. But - I don’t know how, but that sheet was half on the floor last time. Someone’s folded it since. I—” Looking to the Darkling, Alina heard something else familiar then. Scrabbling on the exterior wall, like the sound of dog talons. Like the sound she had heard outside of her window. Her blood ran cold. 

With a tremendous crash, the glass running the far wall in broad panes avalanched inward, born ahead of the body that broke it. Leonid, the missing _oprichnik_ , or so she guessed from the uniform. The man’s features were a gory mess. 

Behind them, just inside of the door, Matvey’s cry choked off in a spray of arterial blood, as a dark shape climbed up the wall above him toward the high ceiling. The lantern he carried smashed upon the floor beside the _oprichnik’s_ jerking body, a flaming pool of oil starting to form. Stasya swooped a hand toward it, her quick action keeping the old wood from catching fire. But a second figure bounded through the door and striking out at her with an impossibly fast limb. She yelled, lashing out with her power and darting away. 

They were surrounded. 

Deciding confrontation in the gardens was preferable to the confines of the corridor or the ballroom, the Darkling shouted, “Outside!” Glancing back to see Alina right behind him, he sprinted for the fretted doors beside the piano. 

Together they plunged out into the moonlight, into a garden of dead things robed in ice and snow. Massive planters squatted alongside benches, all rendered of dark stone, that ran along the perimeter half-walls and punctuated the interior space into nooks for sitting and viewing plantlife that must once have looked far more majestic. The flagstones settled awkwardly into the earth, having shifted so long ago that the edges jutting up were themselves worn smooth. 

Alina could only see such things later, in her mind’s eye, thinking back upon it. In the moment itself, her world narrowed to a featureless corridor down which she ran at the Darkling’s heels. He did not stop until they reached a clear space a good distance from the manor, for who or what had hurled Leonid’s corpse was out here somewhere. Stasya stumbled out behind them, face twisted with pain and clutching her arm with a bloodied hand. The Corporalnik and remaining _oprichniki_ likewise fled into the garden, eyes wild from the sight of what charged in their wake. 

One came after them by way of the door, while the other vaulted clear through the broken glass, landing in a crouch atop one of the huge planters. Even with nothing but moonlight to see by, Alina recognized them. One of the Countess’s guards and the other, from amongst the servants. Yet there was something terribly wrong. Their eyes burned with a feverish, inhuman light and they moved like no man she had ever seen moved, animalistic and swift as striking snakes. 

The Cut sheared the planter and the man-creature perched atop it - though he had nearly avoided it with his speed - a high pitched shriek bursting forth from him. It reverberated painfully through several layers of her skull. Even as that black gash of unlight faded from view, a shadow on the face of the house skittered down and jumped to the flagstones to reveal itself as another of the guards. Figures bounded down from the slope running above the garden. A hoarse screeching rose from their throats in unison, as they rushed the _oprichniki_ and Grisha. 

Blood drumming in her ears so hard everything else seemed very distant, Alina raised her arms. Without her mirrored gloves, there was little enough she could do save set the gardens aglow so that her own side could see. Bands of shadow snaked out from the Darkling’s hands, reaching for the creatures’ eyes. But blinding them did not cause panic as it had with the Fjerdans. It did not seem they could see, but they moved with confidence nevertheless, as if their other senses were more than sufficient. Gunshots pounded the air, but she had yet to see another creature drop, even if some were bleeding. That blood was sluggish and dark. 

She saw the Heartrender fling out a hand, before a look of confusion flitted across his features, only to be replaced with dawning horror. The guard he had targeted never broke stride, fingernails as sharp as a scalpel of Grisha steel tearing the Corporalnik’s throat out. With one arm limp by her side, shredded muscle showing through the gash in her sleeve, Stasya sent gouts of flame into the night, her face white-lipped and sagging. Yegor grappled desperately with a creature to the left. 

Alina watched as an unsettling pattern emerged. They were like a dog pack, sniping and darting away, but always careful in how they placed themselves around the others. It kept the Darkling from using the Cut as effectively, kept the others from holding ground in the face of those terrible claws and that speed. She stared around uneasily, just as the creatures dashed in with suddenly increased furor. 

There. A flash of white, on the wall above, caught just out of the corner of her eye. 

That white, frizzy hair was sleek as water now. Her face was nearly as pale, free of an old woman’s lines, but inhuman in its cut-glass beauty. The Countess Timurova scuttled down from near the eaves, headfirst like a spider, and sprang free to balance on a stone rail that ran along the garden’s edge. Her eyes were savage, gleeful, and they were fixed upon the Darkling. 

_"Look out!!”_

He whirled before the words were completely out of Alina’s mouth. But the Countess was as swift as any of her minions. She opened her mouth and something shot out of it like a whip, catching him at the soft flesh of his throat, just under his chin. It looked all but inconsequential, save for how his body jolted and his eyes went wide, his hands coming up only to curl ineffectually in the air before him. 

Nearby, the last standing of the _oprichniki_ slumped to the ground. As she screamed like a thing gone mad, the remainder of Stasya’s energy flung the Inferni at his assailant and then they were both howling, flames wreathing their struggling figures. There was no one else left. 

Alina’s arm rose and in the darkness, she sketched an arc of light, bright and burning. The Countess fell - one half of her body tipping left, the other right. 

There was quiet in the courtyard then, except for the breath that shuddered like sobs in her chest. There was blood all around her. Yet there was also movement: heaving and white and wet. Maggots writhed free of the creatures’ bodies, more and more of them, until Alina felt a scream rising with the gorge in her throat. It clogged there; it was in dreadful silence that her hands came up from her sides. 

Light poured forth in waves, washing over the bodies. Where it touched them, the nests of maggots began to burn and an awful stench rose through the air. She pushed harder than she ever had, harder than if one hundred of Baghra stood there, smacking her with canes, harder than she had ever imagined doing anything in her life. 

“Alina.” 

Maggots crisped and blackened, piles of clothing alight like bonfires. Almost as hot were the tears that dripped down her face, as she looked at her comrades strewn around her like broken toys, and the arms she held out before her trembled like dead leaves on a tree’s limbs. Nothing moved now, but she could not see that, and the light continued to pulse.

“Alina!” 

She spun so fast she nearly tripped on the flagstones. The Darkling stared back at her. A rivulet of blood ran down his throat and his face was paler than its norm. But he was standing. He was alive. 

“Are, are you okay?” 

His mouth quirked. “I am. Are you?” 

He started to raise an arm toward her, to what purpose, she was not sure. But movement propelled movement and Alina lurched toward him, griping at the front of his _kefta_ with shaking hands. She wanted to close her eyes, but she could not force them shut. Instead, she dropped her forehead to his chest and let the black fabric there become her only view of the world. 

The Darkling went still at first. Then she felt his hand slip beneath her hair to cup the back of her neck, much as he had on that horseback ride that seemed so long ago. She felt a little calmer, but blurted out, “I don’t want to sleep right now, I’ll have nightmares.” 

He made a sound that she more felt than heard; it might have been a laugh. His other arm came around her waist. She did not fall asleep and he did not move: they stood like that for a long moment, their heartbeats twinning in her ears. 

When Alina finally pulled back, the Darkling let the arm at her waist fall away. But his other hand came to her face, just for a moment. “Thank you, Alina.” 

From beyond the corner of one wing of the house, the thunder of several pairs of boots running pulled them about with alacrity and they each raised a hand into the air without a word said. But there was no mistaking the deep red of the _kefta_ that burst into view. They were fewer in number than they had been, Ivan’s party, and there was more than one wound in evidence. The Heartrender himself turned several shades paler to see the carnage littering the gardens, not to mention the sight of the Darkling bleeding. 

Alina did not have it in her to smirk just then.

* * *

They found only two others alive in the manor. David - who had drowsed off in the library rather than his room - and Sveta had barricaded themselves in the scullery and were unharmed. Though Alina privately ascribed that to their being of neither threat nor other interest, remembering with a shiver the Countess’s inhuman face staring at the Darkling. David looked as present in the moment as she had ever seen him - fear could do that - and Sveta was praying hysterically over the icon she clutched in her hands. 

Of the stablemaster, there was no sign. One of the two surviving _oprichniki_ reported that a horse was missing and tracks were to be seen churning away through the snow. But whether the man had merely fled in terror or was one of the creatures, escaped, no one could say. 

She was unsure if anyone did more than pretend to sleep the rest of that night, gathered into one of the more defensible rooms. For her part, Alina curled beneath a blanket at the end of a couch, her _kefta_ still on and buttoned to the neck. Whenever her eyes opened, they found their way to the Darkling, seated nearby in a chair. 

“What were they?” she whispered, once dawn had finally come to limn the horizon. 

“Precisely? I don’t know.” He leaned his dark head against the back of the chair, but more than anyone else, Alina was sure he had not closed his eyes the night through. “But there are older things in the world than people like to remember. Time has not ended all of them.” 

 

* * *

The thought of leaving Sveta here or even in the nearby village, was not something Alina could stomach. Who knew what superstitious peasants would make of what had occurred at the Timurova estate: the truth, likely. She asked the Darkling if the girl could be brought to Chernast - without begging or merely suggesting - and he did not refuse her. 

As the sight of the manor receded into the distance, Alina let out a small laugh, surprising herself. She peered at her hands. “I suppose I don’t need to worry about how to deal with the stag now.” 

The Darkling looked at her for a long moment. 

“Indeed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can scarcely believe it’s done! I started on this well over a year ago and am thrilled to have gotten it wrapped up. I hope everyone enjoyed reading the story and I would love to hear what you thought!
> 
> The creatures in this tale were based upon a variety of vampire from Russian lore: the Upierczi. They were said to have stingers under their tongues, instead of having fangs. When burned, their bodies give rise to hordes of small, gross creatures like maggots. There are some other hints to Slavic vampires and bad omens sprinkled throughout the work.


End file.
